'Don't make me angry ...'

Overall, I'm a pretty easy-going gal. In fact, when I admit to having a bit of a temper, my co-workers actually scoff. I assure them, in my best impression of the late Bill Bixby in the role of Dr. David Banner; "Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

It's a pretty pathetic imitation and I have yet to accomplish the transformation into "The Incredible Hulk." I think it's a green thing.

Nevertheless, I do have a temper. One I do my level best to control, at all times. I remember, with more than a small measure of shame, the day I tore the bedroom door right off its hinges. Everyone was shocked. I was shocked. I have no memory of the event that set me off. It certainly didn't merit destroying the door. That's the scary part about anger. It can flare up quickly and cause a lot of collateral damage.

Anger is powerful. Court dockets testify to its power, newspaper headlines scream its power from the top of the fold on page one too many times to count, and hearts and lives are torn asunder daily by this white hot emotion. Nevertheless, it takes a lot of energy to stay angry and oftentimes, it will burn itself out. Or not.

Years ago, a serious situation involving extended family members came up, requiring a phone call to one of the other mothers in our family group. I had to make the call, though I dreaded it with every fiber of my being. As the conversation unfolded, the other party expressed immediate anger and dismay at my revelation and the phone call abruptly ended. I was filled with righteous indignation.

Since I was alone in the house, with Danny at work and all of the children at school, I took my angry energy out on the house. I snapped the bed sheets, tucked them in tightly, scrubbed the tub within an inch of its life, and creased the jeans as they came out of the dryer, all while rehearsing what I would say and how I would say it the next time I spoke to the person who had dared to hang up on me.

I was a white tornado, ripping through dust and dirt with a vengeance. It was either that or call her back and let her have it. I kept cleaning. And cleaning. And cleaning. The phone rang later that same day. I answered with trepidation and held my breath when I heard her voice on the line.

With deep gratitude, I immediately accepted her apology. A game plan to right what had gone wrong was agreed upon and we never spoke of it again. On the downside, I don't think my house has been that clean since.

There are those who can hold onto anger, even white hot, righteous anger, with no visible signs of injury. And there are those who hold onto a grudge like it was a bar of gold in a deepening recession. Nothing can convince these people to let go of their anger and they feed it as faithfully as a mother nurses her newborn.

There is a danger there.

Anger, even righteous anger, when held in the steel grip of the one who was wronged is like a cancer, attacking the healthy soul cells, replacing them with layer upon layer of crushed limestone or granite, sand, fly ash and cement. The result is a heart of concrete, as hard as stone. And a hard heart is a dangerous thing.

A hard heart knows no mercy and extends no mercy.

A hard heart resists even the most endearing of probes and rejects any creed that opposes it.

Nothing, not even love-drenched tears, can penetrate a hard heart.

Nothing that is, except sin.

Without mercy, without love, without willing introspection, the hard heart is always right, even when it engages in behavior it knows is wrong. Because the heart truly is "deceitful above all things and beyond cure," as Jeremiah 17:9 tells us, the heart that has hardened itself, even with righteous anger, has denied the Lord the opportunity to right the wrong his way and has traded peace for self-sufficiency, self-righteousness and ultimately, I fear, self-destruction.

"'In your anger do not sin': Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry." Ephesians 4:26 (NIV)

I don't have all the answers, but I know the One who does. Let's walk together for awhile and discover Him; together.

Dawn